


boys of summer

by 1000_directions



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Strike Team Delta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 02:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20593220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions
Summary: Clint knows Rollins as an agent, but he doesn’t know Rollins very well as a person. He’s a man of few words, efficient and exacting in his work and not much for smalltalk. He never comes out to the raucous afterparties that Rumlow organizes after particularly brutal or successful missions. Clint doesn’t really know anything about his life, doesn’t know what he’s doing here in Brooklyn when he’d assumed everyone else on the team lived in D.C.Clint makes a new friend.





	boys of summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kalika_999](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).

> hello! this is my first of two fics for the 2019 charity hawktion, and it was won as a birthday gift for kali, who wanted a clint & jack rollins friendship fic with some background rollins/rumlow. in this fic, as requested, rollins and rumlow are good guys and are not secretly hydra :) this was such a fun request that pushed me to try new things and learn about new characters, and i hope the end result is something that you enjoy. thank you for trusting me with these characters who i know are very dear to you, and i hope you have a great birthday :)

Clint’s trying to decide between ordering a pizza and napping on the couch when the light above his door flashes, which means someone is trying to buzz in from the street. Did he already order a pizza and forget about it? It wouldn’t be the first time he came home from a tricky STRIKE mission and started sleepwalking through his own life like a zombie.

He squints at his phone, pulling up the app that controls his security system. He flips through various camera views until he can see who’s standing at the door outside.

It’s not pizza. It’s...Rollins?

Clint knows Jack Rollins from work, which is to say he knows very detailed information about his strategic strengths and blindspots, knows he can ask Rollins to watch his back during a mission and be reasonably assured neither of them will end up dead. Knows he’s the team expert when it comes to demolitions, knows he did a decent job as a standby sniper when Clint got sidelined for a month with a stupid concussion. Suspects Rollins is the one who reported the concussion, because Clint sure as shit didn’t, and Rollins is the only one Rumlow really listens to.

He knows Rollins as an agent, but he doesn’t know Rollins very well as a person. He’s a man of few words, efficient and exacting in his work and not much for smalltalk. He never comes out to the raucous afterparties that Rumlow organizes after particularly brutal or successful missions. Clint doesn’t really know anything about his life, doesn’t know what he’s doing here in Brooklyn when he’d assumed everyone else on the team lived in D.C.

Rollins leans on the buzzer again, raising an eyebrow slightly as he looks directly into the _extremely discreet and well hidden_ security camera, and the fact that he located it so easily is both disconcerting and impressive.

“Yeah, come on up,” Clint says over the intercom, buzzing him in. It’s weird and a little alarming to see one of the world’s most elite secret agents showing up at his door, but Rollins is _probably_ not here to kill him; he’d be much more subtle about it. No harm in letting him in and figuring out what’s going on.

Clint just manages to fumble his aids back into his ears and change from his filthy t-shirt into a shirt that isn’t _clean_ but at least isn’t visibly stained, and then Rollins is knocking on his door. Clint looks helplessly over his shoulder at his apartment, but there’s no helping the mess at this point. Fuck it. He wasn’t expecting company, and he’s not going to be made to feel ashamed in his own home.

“Hey,” Clint says, opening the door and leaning against the jamb. “Did we make plans I forgot about?”

“Nope,” Rollins says. He’s wearing well-worn jeans and a faded CBGB sweatshirt that’s a little loose in the shoulders and a little snug everywhere else, and trying to picture Rollins at a punk club is so bizarre that Clint has to wonder if he’s dreaming. It’s incongruous, seeing him _here_, in Bed-Stuy, wearing _sneakers_. Like he’s….

Well, like he’s a whole person with a whole life outside of STRIKE. Which, of course he is. But it’s fuckin’ weird to see it.

“Did you want to come in?” Clint asks hesitantly, scratching at the back of his neck. He not a great host on his best day, and he’s feeling particularly worn-out and antisocial right now. If Rollins is looking for entertainment any more stimulating than sitting on the couch watching Dog Cops, he probably followed the wrong coworker home.

Rollins shifts his weight from foot to foot, nearly imperceptibly, just enough for Clint to sense that he’s uncomfortable, too. Lucky trots over to see what’s going on, nosing impatiently at the backs of Clint’s knees, preventing him from running into the hallway to greet their guest. Clint scratches idly behind his ears, waiting to hear what Rollins has to say.

“I’m going to ask you for a favor,” Rollins says stiffly, clearing his throat before he continues. “You can say no.”

Clint isn’t so good at saying no, so he raises an eyebrow and waits to hear whatever it is he’s inevitably going to agree to do.

“Just looking for somewhere to crash tonight,” Rollins says, and he fixes Clint with his odd, asymmetric stare. “I can sleep on a couch, the floor, the fire escape. I’m not trying to impose.”

“Did something go south for you?” Clint asks, curiously. Rollins shrugs. “What was it, a date or a mission?”

“Maybe a little of both,” Rollins says with an odd curl of his lip that Clint belatedly realizes is meant to be a smile. “Is that a yes?”

“Sure,” Clint says, and he opens the door enough for Rollins to step into his apartment, angling his body to keep Lucky behind him.

“Thanks,” Rollins says, stepping inside and locking the door behind him. The second he’s through, Lucky breaks loose, galloping over to see who’s here and if they smell good and if they brought any treats.

“Settle down, Luck,” Clint says half-heartedly as his dog snuffles around Rollins’ ankles, tail thumping wildly. Lucky is a good boy, and Rollins can appreciate that or he can sleep on the fire escape.

“Hey, buddy,” Rollins says softly. He crouches down, extending his hand for Lucky to sniff and slobber on. He scratches the side of Lucky’s neck, and Lucky wriggles with excitement before plopping down on his back and exposing his belly. Rollins laughs under his breath and ruffles his fingers through Lucky’s soft fur, and Lucky pants happily, giving Clint an upside-down doggy grin.

“Good boy,” Clint murmurs. Lucky’s a good judge of character.

“You’re sure it’s no problem if I stay?” Rollins asks. He’s fully sitting on the floor now, legs awkwardly akimbo as he scritches at Lucky’s tummy with both hands.

“You can sleep on the couch, no problem,” Clint decides. “I’ve been exiled there enough times to know it’s decently comfortable.”

“Exiled in your own home?” Rollins asks.

“You’ve met Tasha,” Clint says, and Rollins barks out a laugh.

“Sure, I can guess,” Rollins says, and his face eases slightly. There’s something almost relaxed about him, like it’s the first time Clint has ever seen him start to take his guard down. “She isn’t here now, is she? I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Yeah, man, you’re interrupting my most important post-mission ritual,” Clint says, giving Rollins a minute to stew in that before continuing. “Trying to decide what kind of pizza to order. Any thoughts?”

“Shit, I haven’t had pizza in forever,” Rollins says, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Huh,” Clint says. He hasn’t had pizza since, like, Tuesday. “Well, there’s a menu on the fridge.” He gestures vaguely towards the kitchen.

“Cool,” Rollins says, standing up and and walking in the direction Clint had indicated. “What’s good?”

“Everything’s good,” Clint says, slightly confused. “It’s pizza.”

“Which vegetables are on the veggie supreme?” Rollins calls over from the next room.

“Dunno,” Clint calls back, shaking Lucky’s rope toy at him. “Don’t have the whole menu memorized.”

“Okay.” Rollins appears back in the doorway. “Do you know which meats are on the meat lovers supreme?”

“Pepperoni, spicy sausage, barbecue chicken, bacon, ham, and meatballs,” Clint recites without missing a beat. Rollins snickers at him. “Hey, fuck off, I like what I like.”

“Order whatever you’d get normally,” Rollins says. “I’m not trying to inconvenience you.” He crosses the room and sits on the couch, and Lucky lopes after him, launching himself at the couch and resting his head hopefully on Rollins’ thigh, and Clint can’t tell whether he’s being inconvenienced or not.

He orders the pizzas and returns the phone to the cradle, idly wondering if Rollins would give him shit about still having a landline the way most people do. Probably not. He’s being nice enough, and Clint thinks that given enough time or alcohol, maybe they could be friends.

They don’t have a lot of time before bed, and Clint’s never one to turn down a shortcut.

He’s got half a six-pack left in the fridge, but he doesn’t think that would even put a dent in Rollins’ self-control. The guy could probably drain a keg and stay on his feet. He needs to break out the heavy artillery. He opens the freezer and pulls out the heavy glass bottle Tasha left there, tracing the frosty cyrillic letters with his finger. She’ll likely as not kill him when she finds out he’s been in her stash, but she’s always telling him to branch out and make more friends, so he might be able to turn it back around on her.

“Wanna cut loose?” Clint asks as he walks back into the room, brandishing the bottle above his head like a sword.

“Do you have any glasses?” Rollins asks, tilting his head, and a stray lock of hair falls down across his face, and it’s the most undone Clint has ever seen him.

“No,” Clint says decisively. “I’m a big believer in consuming beverages directly from their containers so none of the flavor leaks out.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Rollins says, but he accepts the bottle from Clint and opens it. “_Człowiek nie wielbłąd, pić musi_,” he proclaims before tipping his head back and downing a generous shot.

“That was impressive,” Clint says in spite of himself.

“This is going to be dangerous,” Rollins says with a grin, handing the bottle over to Clint. “And now you, my generous host.”

Clint accepts the bottle and considers his options. He finally falls back on Rumlow’s standard post-mission toast: “Here’s to hell - may our stay there be as much fun as the way there.”

“Cheers,” Rollins murmurs as Clint tilts his head back and gulps too much vodka at once and comes back up sputtering.

“Don’t tell Tasha how bad I fucked that one up,” Clint says, wiping off his mouth with the back of his hand. “She still thinks I’m smooth.” 

“The only smooth part of that was the vodka,” Rollins says with a sly smile, and the dig is so unexpected that Clint has to laugh.

Clint finds the remote and turns on Dog Cops, and he and Rollins pass the bottle back and forth a few more times. Clint went into this knowing he was gonna get fucked up, but it still surprises him how suddenly it seems to hit.

“Shit, I’m wasted,” he murmurs. He’s sitting on one side of the couch, Rollins on the other, Lucky happily snuggled between the two of them. “What about you, man? You feeling that?”

“I’m feeling it,” Rollins says, ruffling Lucky’s ears. “Haven’t been this messed up in a while.”

“Wasn’t sure you ever really liked to,” Clint says. “You never go out with the rest of us. You never party or celebrate.”

“Not really my scene,” Rollins says. “I’m more of a ‘stay at home on the couch with a cup of tea and my knitting’ kind of guy."

He says it guilelessly, neutrally, and Clint narrows his eyes. Rollins blinks at him innocently, and it takes a full minute before he grins at Clint.

“No, I’m fucking with you,” Rollins says. “I mean, I do like to stay at home. More of a whiskey man, though.”

“I like to stay at home sometimes,” Clint says, thinking longingly of all the great dog shows stored in his DVR. “Most of the time, really. But it’s nice to go out once in a while, get just wild enough to remind myself why it’s only a once-in-a-while deal.”

“Sure,” Rollins says thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Makes sense. I just...don’t like to be in a group with my defenses down.”

“Hmm.” Clint thinks about that, wonders how safe he really feels with his dodgy hearing and his senses impaired in a public place. “I get that, I guess. But it’s the _team_. You’re safe with the team.”

“Not worried about...not being safe,” Rollins muses. “Might run my mouth though. Might start some shit I shouldn’t start.”

“Really?” Clint asks, delighted at the possibility to learn some new gossip. In the past few hours, this man has gone from a complete cipher to a person with multitudes, and Clint is gonna uncover them all. “Tell me everything.”

Rollins looks down at the bottle consideringly, then he tilts his head back and drains it before saying, “Some people I know get very handsy and emotional when they’re drunk, and I’ve been known to be very jealous. So it’s best for team dynamics if I don’t participate in the partying.”

For one wild moment, Clint thinks he’s talking about _Natasha_, who mostly keeps her composure around Clint, especially in public. But when they’ve been drinking, all bets are off. They do get a bit gross and handsy, everyone bitches about it, but it’s not like Rollins is into _Tasha_, and there are no other girls on the team, so….

Oh.

_Oh_.

“You should come out with us sometime,” Clint says, trying to reach for another slice of pizza without actually moving the rest of his body. His arm isn’t quite long enough, and he sadly paws at the empty air, like the pizza might take pity on him and launch itself into his hands. “People mostly keep it…shit, I was gonna say _professional_, but that’s a goddamn lie. But it’s, you know. Buddies. Nothing to get jealous about. No one’s making out at the pool table.”

“I find it real hard to believe that you and Nat have never made out on a pool table,” Rollins says with a tight smile.

“She felt me up against the dartboard once,” Clint confesses, and Rollins chuckles. “Hey, I made an amazing shot! I wouldn’t have been able to resist me either.”

“It doesn’t really bother anyone, does it?” Rollins asks, pushing his sleeves up, and Clint looks at the wiry strength of his forearms, such a contrast to the softness of his hoodie. “You and Nat, I mean. No one ever seems to worry that you’ll wreck the team dynamic by being together.”

“No one’s ever said anything to me,” Clint says, giving up and shifting his weight so he can swipe a piece of pizza, nearly falling to the floor but recovering his balance at the last moment. “Me and Tasha work well together.”

“That and she’d destroy anyone who tried to get in her way,” Rollins says.

“Slowly and painfully,” Clint says happily with his mouth full of pizza. “Hey, so who are you worried about, then? You need me to make sure someone’s keeping his hands to himself next time we go out?”

“You don’t have to get involved,” Rollins says, picking at a small hole in his jeans. “It’s okay. I trust Brock.”

Clint’s mind _explodes_.

Rumlow. Rollins and Rumlow. He never would have pictured it, but now he can’t _stop_ picturing it. Actually, now that he thinks of it, he’s definitely seen Rumlow wearing that same CBGB sweatshirt before, and it...makes sense. Rollins is clearly their commander’s favorite, and there’s an unspoken sort of bond between the two of them that Clint always thought was just because they’d worked alongside each other for so long. But he and Tasha have that, too. That intuitive sort of understanding of what another person is thinking and feeling and planning. It makes sense. He never would’ve guessed, but it _makes sense_.

“I’ve never seen him get handsy,” Clint says, trying to play it cool, trying to act like Rollins didn’t just reveal something deeply personal and confessional that Clint didn’t expect. “I’ve only ever seen him put his hands on someone if he was fighting.”

Rollins snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, I’ve seen him come home with the black eyes and the bruised knuckles. Dumbass.”

“So you two live together?” Clint asks casually.

“Sure,” Rollins says with a shrug.

“How long?”

“Oh, just about...eight years, I guess.”

_Jesus_. They’ve kept it quiet for _eight years_.

“Wow,” Clint says. “Wow, that’s a long time. Is it a secret, or am I just really dense, or…?”

“Can’t it be both?” Rollins asks with a sly smile. “No, I mean. I don’t like to advertise my personal business too much. I’m not ashamed or anything, it’s just...personal. And no one ever asked, so I never said anything.”

“You want me to keep it quiet?”

“Don’t really know,” Rollins says. “Haven’t really thought this through, I guess. Ask me again when I’m sober.”

“Sure thing, pal,” Clint says. “And listen, I can’t give advice for shit, but if you ever wanna….” He gestures vaguely in the air, like he’s trying to catch a butterfly of an idea. “I don’t know. I’m here. I have a couch. You bring the booze next time.”

“Thanks,” Rollins says. “Thank you. I don’t have a lot of…. There aren’t too many people I can talk to.”

“What do you think, Lucky?” Clint asks, tickling his paw. “You think we can find a spot for Rollins in our very exclusive social club?” Lucky grunts and rolls over, resituating his paws under his body and then falling back asleep. “He’ll consider it,” Clint says magnanimously.

“I appreciate that,” Rollins says with a small smile. “And hey. Call me Jack.”

“To my new buddy Jack,” Clint says, raising the empty vodka bottle. “_Mi _couch_ es su _couch.”

*

A few weeks later, they’ve all just finished up debrief on a mission that was absolutely _brutal_. Dixon’s gonna be out of commission for at least three weeks, and everyone’s a little shaken up. Clint feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin, and even Tasha is having trouble settling down and playing it cool.

“Drinks?” Rumlow asks, his voice uncharacteristically hollow.

“_Fuck_ yes, drinks,” Clint says emphatically. He’s gonna need to drink the whole bar dry to get this shit out of his head.

“I need to dry my hair,” Tasha murmurs absently, stroking the end of her ponytail. “I’ll meet everyone there.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Clint says automatically, and she gives him a small smile. “We’ll arrive fashionably late together.”

“I’ll be fashionable,” she says, that familiar mischievous glint creeping back into her eyes, “but you’ll just be late.”

“Shut up and dry your hair,” he says softly, cupping her face with his hand, even though it hurts his swollen knuckles. Christ, he’d suffer a lot worse just to touch her. His large, calloused hand looks so clumsy against the delicate features of her face, and it’s almost comical how he physically dwarves her, like they shouldn’t fit. But she just smiles and turns her head to kiss his palm, and really, he’s so stupidly in love with her that it’s crazy his goddamn heart hasn’t exploded from it yet.

When they show up at the usual bar forty minutes later, Clint’s not entirely sure what he’s expecting to see, but it’s sure not Roll--_Jack_ and Rumlow looking cozy by the pool table. It’s not too obvious, they aren’t making out on the pool table, but they’re standing just a little bit closer than Clint’s ever seen before, and they’re both smiling, loose and easy and probably already drunk.

“Did you know about that?” Clint asks Tasha, inclining his head subtly in their direction.

“Of course I did,” she murmurs, slipping her hand into Clint’s back pocket. “What, you didn’t? You’ve been slipping, babe.”

“I have _not_ been slipping,” he insists haughtily. “They’ve been living together for eight years. Did _you_ know that?”

“Stop showing off and buy a lady a drink,” she says with a smile. “And don’t make any jokes about how you don’t see any ladies around here. You’re better than that.”

He’s really not better than that, but he ducks his head and kisses her to cover it up.

Clint heads over to the bar and orders a couple beers to ease them into the night. After he pays and turns around, he sees that Tasha has joined Brock and Jack at a small table near the jukebox.

“No one saved me a seat,” he complains when he walks over.

“I’ve got a seat right here for you, мышка,” Tasha says with a lazy smile, patting her thighs.

“Best seat in the house,” Clint says, easily plopping down into her lap and crossing his lanky legs with hers. She drapes her arms around him, one crossing his chest like a sash, holding him flush to her body, and the other rests casually on his shoulder so she can hold her beer. She’s tiny, but he fits perfectly in her lap, always has, and she contains him so effortlessly.

“Those aren’t shots,” Jack says, nodding at the bottle in Clint’s hand, and Clint feigns shock, looking at the bottle as if he can’t imagine where it came from.

“Shit, you’re right!” Clint exclaims, eyebrows shooting up in mock horror. “This isn’t any kind of shot at all! Where’s the manager?”

“I’ve got it,” Jack says, standing up from the table, only a hint of sway as he finds his feet and walks over to the bar.

“Nice to see him out,” Clint says to Rumlow. “It’s cool that he’s joining us.”

“Yeah,” Rumlow says softly. He’s watching Jack lean against the bar, long legs crossed, postured relaxed and easy. Clint’s never seen Rumlow so serenely transfixed on _anything_ before. “Yeah, it’s real cool.”

Jack returns to the table empty-handed.

“So then where are the shots?” Rumlow asks. Jack shrugs casually, and Rumlow shakes his head. “Never mind. I don’t even want to know, do I?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jack says. He scoots his chair closer, his thigh just barely grazing Rumlow’s. Clint is pretty sure they’re holding hands under the table.

Five minutes later, the bartender approaches their table with four pink shots that are literally on fire, as well as a cheap tiara.

“Congratulations,” he says, depositing the items on the table and shuffling back to the bar.

“What?” Clint says dumbly. The shots are _on fire_. “What did you tell him?”

“Just said we were here celebrating your engagement,” Jack says slyly, and Clint shakes his head. “I was hoping they’d do a whole embarrassing song for you, but I guess it’s not that kind of place. Put on your tiara, Clint.”

“I think that’s for Tasha,” he says uncertainly.

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “Definitely for you, babe. Put on your sparkly crown and drink your fire.”

It’s all downhill from there. Three hours later, Clint and Tasha are staggering towards the exit, Clint draped over her back as he wheedles and begs for a piggyback ride and she shushes him and strokes her thumb over his wrist.

“Looks like they had a good time,” she says, nodding at Rumlow and Jack, who are currently making out on top of the pool table, Rumlow’s hands disappearing somewhere under Jack’s sweater, Clint’s tiara on Jack’s head.

“Fucking a coworker is good for team morale,” Clint says sagely. Tasha snorts and shakes her head, but it’s only a moment later that she’s giving in, letting Clint clamber onto her back for an extremely awkward piggyback ride. He whoops in victory as they head out the door, into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://1000-directions.tumblr.com/post/187624962269/title-boys-of-summer-link-ao3-pairing-clint)
> 
> Jack's toast is Polish, and it translates to "Man is not a camel, he must drink."
> 
> Natasha calls Clint "little mouse"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [hawktion comic pages for Kali](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25689745) by [Cruria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cruria/pseuds/Cruria)


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